Here’s a rewritten version that keeps the same meaning: “You’re nothing like your sister,” my mom remarked at dinner.

My fork froze halfway to my mouth.

Three years.

Three years of payments pulsed behind my ribs. Payments I had made quietly, sacrificing vacations, postponing grad school, and decimating my own savings because they whispered they were drowning. I drove a rattling car and lived a half-life so they could keep their whole one.

And now, they were rewriting the story right in front of me. Giving my blood and sweat to Vivian as a trophy.

A heat started building in my chest, rising like a tide of magma. My mother must have sensed the shift. She gave me that look—the patronizing tilt of her head that always warned: Stay in your lane, Nora.